Indelible
by handful of sky
Summary: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. So is a lot. Joan has left her mark on Sherlock, and things will never be the same between them.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: What's more fun than writing Elementary fan fiction? Writing it with someone else whose work you respect and admire! CharmingNotDarling and I have been hard at work on a joint venture, and she's graciously allowed me to post it under my pseudonym instead of creating a new one solely for this story. Keep in mind that every review will be doubly appreciated, and please consider visiting her page and checking out all the wonderful works she has to offer!

Disclaimer: We do this for love, not for profit!

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><p><strong>Indelible<strong>

Sherlock holds himself perfectly still in the dark silence of the brownstone, processing the events of the day (and night) while watching Watson sleep. This is hardly aberrant behavior on his part, but tonight his perspective is vastly different from what he's used to. Her hair is splayed out across her pillow, just as he's seen it on many other occasions, only this time some of the finer strands stir slightly with each of his exhalations. Her chest rises and falls with the same slow regularity he's witnessed previously, but now he feels the movement as much as he sees it, the fingers of his right hand slotted snugly into the small creases between her ribs.

His body yearns for sleep, but his mind is racing, spinning deliriously with all of the input that it's received over the last few hours. He's always known Watson to be graceful and generous and strong, and, if anything, those qualities have only been magnified in his estimation. But now he's also aware of the way the timbre of her voice changes when she's whispering encouragement into his ear instead of admonishing him for his lack of tact. He knows the feel of her clever, articulate fingertips tattooing the length of his spine, the way her hair cascades between her shoulder blades when she arches her back, and what it's like to wake up with the taste of her still on his tongue. He flooded his senses with her, and she spurred him on, urging him to know her body every bit as intimately as he does her mind. The only thing that she failed to share of herself is any clue as to what this might mean to the course of their relationship.

His logical side questions why this need fundamentally change things between them, while a softer voice, one that he thought had died along with Irene, wonders, _How could it not?_ How could either of them ever be satisfied with anyone else, with anyone _less_ than what they are to each other?

Perhaps this is merely the latest in a long line of gradual changes in their relationship. They've evolved from client/companion to mentor/apprentice to a full partnership. This latest transition was fueled by her discovery of a detail he'd overlooked in one of his cold cases. In her excitement, she'd thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Her exuberance quickly gave way to excitement of a different sort altogether.

He thinks he may have kissed her first, although, in retrospect, it was likely something of a tie. He _knows_ that she had his shirt untucked well before his hands slid up underneath her top to investigate the satiny skin at the small of her back. She was the one who broke that first, fevered kiss to peer up at him intently. Clad in stocking feet, she was small in stature, but not in presence nor in courage. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen and slightly parted as they both gasped for breath, she'd studied him for several seconds. Just as he was on the verge of preparing an abject apology, she'd taken him by the hand and led him here, into her bedroom.

She stirs briefly beside him before settling back into sleep. Too restless to join her, he eases out of the bed and gently tucks the covers in beside her before searching for his clothing. Barring one sock, he manages to find everything and dresses quietly before settling himself into her armchair.

Even in the dim light, he can still make out the silhouette of one slim leg protruding out from beneath the sheets. It's hidden now, but there's a small mole high up on the inside of that thigh, and he can't help but wonder if there are others that still remain secret. Sherlock is accustomed to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake—the thrill of learning new things has always been a neverending source of fascination for him—but this is altogether different. This is more than simple knowledge. She's gifted him with her body and entrusted him with her affection.

_Affection_. He scoffs at himself. That's what the small, shallow part of him is comfortable naming it, but he knows full well that she would never have risked their friendship or their partnership out of a simple fondness for him. The stakes are too high for both of them. No, there's more to it, but he can't yet bring himself to name it, not until he knows that she doesn't have any regrets.

He gets to his feet and walks quietly back to her side of the bed. If he were to wake her with a kiss, how would she respond? She needs to rest, they both do, but he finds himself fighting the urge to do it anyway, full of a mad hope that she'll smile and welcome him into her arms and reassure him that they're still okay. Instead, he settles for touching her hair one last time before leaving her room and padding down the hall and toward the kitchen, feeling the chill of the floor every time his bare foot makes contact with the wood.

He's just finished filling the kettle and putting it on the stove to heat, when he hears the slamming of a car door coming from the front of the brownstone. It's unusual activity for this time of the morning, and he goes to investigate. Before he gets near a window with an appropriate vantage point, however, the doorbell chimes and is followed by a series of heavy knocks at the front door. Sherlock opens it to find a uniformed police officer on the stoop.

"Everything okay in here?" the officer asks as he casts his eyes around the foyer.

"Of course," he answers testily. "Were you expecting otherwise?" It suddenly occurs to him that Watson had been substantially more, well, _vocal _than he'd expected, given her usual reserved demeanor. "Was there a noise complaint, officer?"

"Nah," the burly uniform replies. "Captain Gregson sent me out here to get you since you weren't answering your phones and we had a couple of bodies drop. He wants you and your partner to take a look at the scene before the rain comes in."

As if on cue, thunder rumbles long and low in the distance.

"What's going on?"

Watson pads softly down the stairs, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a loose t-shirt.

"Officer..."

"Kirkpatrick," the man fills in helpfully.

"...has come to take us to the scene of a murder. It seems we were both negligent in keeping our phones near us."

"I see," she says quietly as the memories of exactly why they were otherwise occupied flit across her features before she schools them back into inscrutability. "I guess we'd better get ready, then." She walks back toward her room without another word or glance, leaving Sherlock completely in the dark as to what the last several hours might have meant to her or to their future.

_End of Chapter 1_


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for the warm response to the first chapter! Things are progressing more slowly than we'd like, but the story is still moving forward and we're committed to seeing it through to the conclusion. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Elementary doesn't belong to us and no infringement is intended.

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><p><strong>Indelible, Chapter 2<strong>

She wakes to a silence to still to be shared: to an empty bed, an empty chair, and the achy, empty chambers of her heart—a heart that, only hours before, was filled with passion and the prospect of affection. She takes a moment to wonder if the night was real, if the memories are only fragments of a dream, fantasies never meant to come true.

But as the sleep fades from her mind, she remembers finding herself teetering on the edge of consciousness throughout the night, each time the inky air nearly humming with his presence. Just the whispering of the sheets as he breathed or the gentle press of his skin to hers as he shifted in sleep set the night aflame with sensation. She runs her fingers along her ribs, swears she still feels the warmth of his palm and press of his fingers. The fact that he was content enough, felt safe enough to sleep beside her, stirs something in her too great to name.

But that's all gone now.

The shadows are thick with the lack of light. Dawn has yet to show its face, but she knows morning is all but on its way. She shifts to sit, feels the sheets tug where he'd tucked them around her before he'd left the room. She draws her palms across her face, presses the tips of her fingers to her eyes as the chilled air draws goose bumps along her exposed skin.

How could she think this would end any differently?

She throws herself back down, her hair spilling and pooling across the pillows and sheets. She catches his scent on the pillow and instinctively turns towards it. She thinks back to the moments that brought her here: to the opened trunk of cold cases, the papers and glossy photos spilled across the library floor, to the sound of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major bleeding through the mortar and brick of the brownstones walls. It seemed to be one of his favorites of late. (Or maybe he'd become overly aware of what the melody did to her inside, how the notes flowed like a potion in her veins.) The exaggerated and broken sounds appeared to be a metaphorical mirror to the spectrum of their moods; she only wishes she'd understood what his heart longed to say with the gorgeous sounds drifting down the hall. She's become all too well versed in what hers would voice in return.

She had been so engulfed in her reading that at first the quieting of the house did not register: his footfalls, the kettle's cry, the groans of wooden protests as he treaded stairs to prepare their tea. In the end she can't be sure who had truly initiated the kiss. They'd startled each other; he'd set her mug down as she'd reared up from the floor, one nearly throwing the other off balance. She'd held her findings out with victory set in her stance, and, once she'd seen the pride in his eyes, she'd thrown her arms around him and engulfed him in an impromptu hug. Not her usual reactions to such accomplishments, but their lives have been anything but usual.

All she can remember from then on was the press of her lips to his skin and the sharp intake of breath in her ear. He's never outwardly calm or gentle with much of anyone or anything but Clyde (and that's just occasional) so when he'd gripped her hip, cupped her cheek, she'd been taken completely by surprise.

It could very well be her imagination, but she would swear the sheets are still warm. She longs for the brush of those talented fingers, the taste of him, the sounds of proof that she possessed the ability to do to him what he's done to her.

This shift in the angle of their world is immeasurable.

She knows well enough he's not one for all the emotional attachment sex can demand when there's a mutual, fathomless respect involved. That his desires do not run deep enough to form attachments to those rooted in devotion. She knew this going in, reminded herself only moments before falling into bed with him, leaving everything else behind.

She'd spent so much time wondering what last night would be like, she'd forgotten to dedicate any thought to what the consequences might be on the morning after. She'd always assumed they'd go about their daily lives, nothing too great or significant for him to derail his dedication to justice, but the bitter taste of rejection seems to overpower the sweetness of acceptance. She laughs bitterly at herself for the truly female reaction to waking up alone after falling asleep with his fingers tangled in her hair and her heartstrings tangled in the tossed sheets. She's never been that woman; never been the one to make madness out of methods.

The chime of the doorbell, followed by the demanding knocking, forces her to realize why she's awake. It would appear someone's come looking for them in the middle of the night. It's then that she realizes she has no phone. She's pretty sure it's downstairs with her forgotten tea and her triumph.

Obviously, sleep is no longer an option. She tosses the covers back and throws on some pajamas before heading downstairs.

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><p>She heads back upstairs to her room and dresses quickly and with little fuss. The last year and a half have her very well-versed in unexpected and urgent calls. She hears a far-off roll of thunder and reaches for her boots at the last minute.<p>

When she takes the stairs down moments later, Officer Kirkpatrick has gone back to his marked car at the curb and only Sherlock remains. He's got a phone in each hand and her raincoat tossed over his arm as he taps furiously at his own device. His eyes meet hers repeatedly in the shadows cast by the cruiser's red and blue light and between his rapid typing.

"Ah, wonderful, you're ready."

She watches him slip the phone away again and hold her slicker out as if nothing has changed. It isn't until she's standing right beside him, before she turns to slip her arms into the waiting sleeves, that she sees the concentration tightly laced within his features. His brow furrowed, lips tight, shoulders rigid; it empties her already-barren heart to know how hard he's fighting to continue on with their norm. She wants to shake him, or better yet kiss him senseless, but she knows better than most that he's already buried deep beneath the heavy blanket of mystery this midnight case has cast upon them.

He slips the coat in place as he's done a thousand times before, and, just as his hands would normally fall away, she feels his fingers at the base of her neck, pulling gently until her hair is free from the coat's collar. The contact is startling and reassuring at the same time, and he turns for the door as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

So she does as she has always done, and follows him out into the night.

_end of chapter 2_


	3. Chapter 3

The bad news: Obviously, we had something of an unintended hiatus.

The good news: We're back!

Disclaimer: Not our characters, but we promise to play nicely with them.

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><p>"So where are we going, exactly?" Watson asks as they settle themselves into the car.<p>

"Union Square Park," Kirkpatrick replies as he turns up the heat to take off the worst of the early morning chill.

He seems disinclined to provide any further details and Watson is studiously poring through missed calls and voicemails, so Sherlock stares out the window and rubs his fingertips and thumb together as they make their way to the Flatiron district. He wanted to give her the space she seems to need in order to process what's transpired between them, but as he was helping her with her coat, he'd been completely helpless to keep himself from pulling her hair aside. She brushed it before they left, pulled out any tangles that may have occurred while they were sleeping, or before, when they were definitely _not_ sleeping. Even as he reached his arm out, he knew how the warm weight of her tresses would cascade across his hand, how soft and smooth they would feel against his palm, but the memory alone wasn't enough to sustain him, and if she even noticed his indulgence, she didn't acknowledge it.

The interior of the vehicle becomes increasingly, almost uncomfortably, warm, and Sherlock suddenly realizes that he can smell her on his skin. She favors sharp, natural scents for her personal care products: citrus, sandalwood, rosemary, only occasionally indulging in the softer florals, most notably jasmine and gardenia. He lifts a hand to his face, ostensibly to rub at the stubble along his jaw, and breathes in the lingering scents of bergamot and ginger. It's disconcerting for just the barest moment before his mind fully processes why the scent is there, and then it becomes familiar and comforting.

When they finally arrive, the officer opens her door and he slides across the seat behind her, noticing in passing that she smells faintly of beeswax and the oil he'd been using last night to lubricate his locks. In short, he can smell himself on her, and, for just a moment, he feels a surge of something vaguely animalistic and more than a little proprietary well up inside of him. He tamps the feeling down ruthlessly and forces himself to focus on why they're here.

Kirkpatrick escorts them past the crime scene tape to the body of a young woman, most likely in her mid-twenties, splayed out face up on the ground next to the fountain. The larger body of a man is crumpled face-down across her legs. Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are already on the scene, as are a much larger than usual contingent of photographers and forensic technicians than is usually warranted by the cases they investigate.

"Glad you two finally made it," the captain says drolly.

Watson starts guiltily for a moment and opens her mouth to offer an excuse before looking at Sherlock uncertainly and then closing it again.

"We're here now, so why don't you catch us up?" he offers.

"You really didn't notice any of this on the news feeds?" Bell asks.

They shrug and look at him blankly as another low rumble of thunder reverberates in the heavy predawn air.

"We were occupied with other matters," Sherlock replies. It's the absolute truth, but it still feels like a prevarication of sorts.

"Well, it's the damnedest thing." Bell points to the smaller victim. "The woman collapses, the man does CPR for a couple of minutes while someone calls for an ambulance, and then he stops suddenly and faceplants. After that, no one would go near them, not even the EMT's. Emergency services thought it might be a gas leak or something from under the fountain and evacuated the area. The hazmat teams finally finished up and gave us the all-clear an hour or so ago. Some of the details are sketchy since a lot of the witnesses fled the scene early on, but it looks like they were together, maybe on a date."

"I can see why everyone was alarmed." Watson approaches the bodies and puts on a pair of gloves before turning the face of the woman toward them. Her skin, where not obscured by makeup, isn't merely the dusky grey of the recently deceased, it's a dark, bluish color. "It may not have been gas, but it sure looks like they were poisoned by something."

Where visible, the male victim's skin is a similar dark hue. "It was obviously fast-acting," Sherlock offers, "and if it wasn't environmental, then that leaves the administration of a topical, or more likely, an ingested poison."

"Maybe a cyanide?" She turns questioning eyes up to him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since she descended the stairs in the brownstone. If he had any qualms about her ability to maintain her usual level of professionalism in light of recent events, they're gone now.

"I can't think of any more likely possibilities," he agrees, "but if so, they must have been exposed very recently. And there's always the possibility that she was the only intended victim and he was exposed through the mouth-to-mouth contact."

Watson points to a paper coffee cup from a nearby shop still standing on the rim of the fountain. "We should have that analyzed. Most poisons are bitter, and the coffee would have masked that." She narrows her eyes for a moment before looking back at the female victim. "It's hard to be sure, given the skin discoloration, but I think the lipstick on the lid matches hers, so this was likely her cup."

A second cup lies beside the fountain, partially underneath the man's body. The top has fallen off and the contents have largely spilled across the pavement, but there should be enough remaining to obtain a sample of it as well.

Sherlock drops to his knees and takes a cautious sniff of the spilt coffee. "Vanilla soy latte, slight dusting of cinnamon. No hint of almonds, bitter or otherwise."

"As impressive as your sense of smell is, Sherlock, I think a GC/mass spec might yield better results," Watson replies drolly.

"Undoubtedly," he agrees as he gets to his feet and dusts off his hands.

As he backs away from the corpse, technicians move in to take samples of the fluids and the medical examiner prepares the first body for removal.

"So are your Spidey senses tingling at all?" the captain asks hopefully.

"I believe that Watson and I agree that an ingested poison is the likely cause of death. Beyond that, the scene isn't of much value."

He looks toward her and she nods as a smattering of raindrops begins to fall at the end of the block, gradually moving toward them. "Any chance we could observe the autopsies?"

"I'll make sure you have access," Gregson says. "Bell will take you down to the station and brief you on the way about what we know about the victims."

They follow the detective for no more than a dozen steps before the rain begins in earnest. Neither of them thought to bring an umbrella, so Bell leaves them under a nearby shop awning before going to fetch his car. The two of them stand awkwardly in silence for a long moment while he ponders the best way to begin a dialogue.

"Watson, we never got an opportunity to discuss—"

"Last night?" she finishes for him. "It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to explain. It was an aberration, I know. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it, but I was never any good at friends with benefits. I can't imagine partners with benefits being any different."

She doesn't understand, and really, how could he expect her to? He's always thought that the term "friends with benefits" should more likely be "friends with complications". Since Watson's come into his life, however, things have been simpler and clearer than he had ever previously envisioned. She's already his friend (and his partner) with benefits too many to enumerate.

Last night, she trusted him enough to truly reveal herself, not just the public persona that she shares with her friends and colleagues. She was wanton, beautiful in her pleasure, generous in his own, and she'd seemed unencumbered by notions of propriety considering their former client/companion relationship.

This morning, everything is as it was yesterday, and he can't help but feel a sharp pang of loss over something that it seems he never truly had.

End of chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: And...we're back! And, in the interim since this was last updated, we still haven't managed to lay claim to the universe or characters, just in case anyone was wondering!

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><p>Indelible, Chapter 4<p>

The ride back to the precinct proves more trying than the ride uptown. Bell's unmarked car is warm and dry, and yet, the tempest wreaking havoc outside is nothing compared to the stormy silence within the standard-issue vehicle.

Joan is well aware that Bell knows something's off. And if she's honest with herself, she cannot be surprised at his ability to read them so well. She has to admit that Bell has always managed to match their pace, to take the lead or follow Sherlock's, and all with no discernible effort. Could he possibly be privy to their inner turmoil? A man and a woman who share a home, an occupation, a friendship; given the circumstances, there are surely a limited number of reasons that would occur to him as a reason for their current schism.

She watches Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. They've always worked well together. Their ability to fall seamlessly into the job has been their greatest asset as partners. They share a respect for the focus the job demands and a balance in regards to all things it doesn't. She was always of the opinion that they'd weather anything together, although partners with benefits had never made it to that list.

"Preliminary case file should be in your inbox by now," Bell states, gaze steady on the rain-drenched, predawn streets. Joan's eyes narrow; she can't be sure if there's a bite of humor in his voice or if she's just overly sensitive and defensive now that their footing is unsure.

She lifts her phone as Sherlock swipes from one screen to another. When she opens the second victim's case file, it is because she knows he will be opening the first.

It would seem not everything is lost.

There's little information without an autopsy and lab work, but at least they have an identity and a foundation for theories. There's a second set of alerts and she finds another two files in her inbox.

"The second set," Marcus begins as he meets first Sherlock's eyes and then Joan's in the mirror, "is an open murder investigation from a few months ago, you might recall the young couple found dead in Brooklyn Battery Park."

She can all but feel the moment Sherlock's memory picks up and takes over. "Ah yes," he says, his voice just a touch too loud and strained, "they were supposedly out walking after a first date, found dead hours later."

"That's the one," Marcus confirms, and Joan does in fact remember it as well. Not their jurisdiction, but the park was close enough to the brownstone for her to take notice when the story hit the papers. They'd walked that park not long before, laden with bags full of blankets, and armed with an urn of hot coffee and a platoon of paper cups. They'd braved the cold, helped a few fellow New Yorkers keep warm, and she likes to believe that the experience helped Sherlock find some inner peace, at least for a few hours.

She leaves the further investigating to him as he swipes and taps away at the open files on his phone. He's as lost to her as he ever is when there's justice within his reach. She prefers to wait for the current autopsy reports before diving in; they'll bring everything they've learned together tonight and build a wall of evidence...or at least she hopes they'll be able to.

The sky goes from ink to indigo to crimson as the cruiser makes its way across town. They pull up to One Police Plaza as the sun is dragged across the livid horizon, its burning light reduced to a shimmering blush as the storm refuses to relinquish control. She feels a little bit like the sun: so full of light and warmth and devotion, and yet still just not enough to burn through the darkness and reveal all she has to offer. Just a constant in a sky too easily swayed by the spell of a rolling storm: quick to rumble with anger and burn with sudden flashes of brilliance.

Sherlock has always carried within him a storm of sorts—he's unpredictable and often turbulent—yet, even through all this, she knows he possesses a calm as well. It may not always come before the storm, it may just follow in the wake of its recession, but she's sure she will always find it.

She exits the car alongside Bell, only to find that Sherlock doesn't follow. She turns back to find him unmoving, pensive, lost in thought.

"Sherlock?" she prompts gently as Bell takes a step away to answer his ringing phone.

He looks up from his phone and turns warm and composed eyes on her, and for a moment she feels as if everything is as it should be, as if they've both tripped over the same moments in a collective memory. When he speaks, his voice is soft and gentler than she's used to. It throws her mind back a few hours to the soft darkness of her room, the warmth of his arms and the tender timbre he'd taken as he'd whispered encouragements and his affections in her hair.

The memories do now what the words had done then and cause her pulse to skip a few collective beats.

"They were all quite young," he says, gestures with his phone to indicate his reference to the deceased couples. "And from the looks of it, very keen on the prospect of new love. Has to make one stop and wonder after one's own heart." He meets her eyes in the shadows then, and there's a combined sense of sorrow and eagerness that she hasn't seen in some time.

Bell hangs up and leans into the cruiser, oblivious or indifferent to the intensity of their conversation. "So it looks like the medical examiner's office is ready for you. Benefits of an early morning start. I'll see you both upstairs when you're through."

His voice is all it takes to snap Sherlock back to their purpose and he exits the car too quickly, meets Joan's eyes over the roof only briefly. "Well, let's not keep the good man waiting then. Come along, Watson."

She falls in step and locks away all she wishes to say. His comments have opened a place inside that she'd only just managed to seal up.

As they head down, Bell takes the elevator up. She finds herself wishing regretfully for coffee or tea.

"You have impeccable timing as always, Mr. Holmes," the coroner states with absolutely no emotion as he leads the zipper down the body bag, revealing their female victim. "Ms. Watson," he adds by way of greeting as he bobs his head in her direction without actually lifting his eyes. They have an unspoken agreement, the three of them; personal space is to be in constant consideration and no one touches without permission.

There's a silence laced in empty words and excess energy as the M.E. removes the victim's clothes, examines the exterior of the body, and begins preparation for his internal exploration. Joan and Sherlock stand side by side, watching and, as always, seeing different things. As the makeup is wiped away, the true bluish tint of the woman's lips blossoms across her cheeks.

Just when she cannot take the weight of the emptiness any longer, Sherlock speaks.

"It's sad, really." The words were nearly whispered and he rocks back and forth on his heels gently. Not his usual, quick movements, but a gentle swaying that he gradually brings to a stop. His mention of emotion surprises her. He's not one to combine fact and feelings, so this change of pace for him softens her hardened defenses.

She looks him over before responding. Checks for signs of scorn or resentment and finds no sign of either. "It's always sad when someone ends up down here."

He nods in agreement, eyes fixed on the doctor's movements. She watches him intently, notices when his eyes glaze over as his mind leaves the body on the table behind, sees his jaw tightening as he grinds his teeth against a memory she's both afraid and hopeful might involve her. She wants so badly to know where his mind is, what his thoughts consist of. Wants so terribly to be where ever his mind has taken him.

"I just can't help but think of all the potential the relationship might have had."

If she had been surprised before, she's baffled now. She doesn't want to read something into his actions that isn't there, but his attitude is so fundamentally different from what she's come to expect from him that, for the barest fraction of a second, she wonders exactly which relationship he's talking about. Then he meets her eyes with the same passive look she's grown so accustomed to for just a few fleeting seconds before turning his attention back to the autopsy. From his posture, it's clear that, for now at least, he's done talking; it's time for the dead to speak.

_end of chapter 4_


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